


I need to cling to something

by DollyViper



Category: Morrissey (Musician), The Smiths
Genre: Also suck at dialouge, Apathy, Drinking, Drunk Driving, I honestly have no idea where this is going, I know fuck all about Manchester so all those details will be muddy, Just making that clear, M/M, Orginal Male Character - Freeform, The Smiths Don't exist, This is pretty weird, Weird, Will add tags as I go, extremely fast pace, maybe future smut, probably, sorry - Freeform, theyre both assholes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:49:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28416387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DollyViper/pseuds/DollyViper
Summary: This is a confused ramble based on "What she said" where Morrissey never joined The Smiths, or any band for that matter and finds someone that he can put his trust in.This is an AU where Morrissey's not a racist asshole, or well, he's still an asshole
Relationships: Morrissey/Original Male Character
Kudos: 4





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Bad writing coming up, consider yourself warned. 
> 
> I don't know anything about Manchester, or 80s Manchester, or small music venues of the 80s. So basically I know nothing and all will be speculation, sort of. 
> 
> Also I don't know where I am taking this, not a lot is actually planned.

Morrissey laid in his bed by the open window. The freezing night air turning his exposed skin into ice, he felt like a dead body, a corpse freed from all human warmth with rigor mortis claiming its lithe flesh. Oh, what a dream. He stared up into his colourless ceiling, eyes stuck on a spot of dirt. How on earth did it get all the way up there? He wondered if he could reach it if he stood on top of the bed. But it wasn’t worth reanimating the dead for. He was happy just lying where he was, feeling his own weight push his back into the mattress, the slight ticking of some faraway clock. It was peaceful. He always liked existence the most this time of day, everything was transformed into something so still and so otherworldly. But it always ended quickly, it was a feeling bound to mere moments, not unlike deja vu or the deep nostalgia one feels as they hear a lone note reminding them of some lost song in one's childhood. Unwelcomed light was slowly seeping into his room, transforming the grey into mud, the slight heat rotting the dead body, bearing its brittle bones and pale intestines. The sun would rise once more, Unfortunately. Another sleepless night. Morrissey would have to catch up during the day. He finally moved, his limbs cracking as he pulled the blanket over himself. He would get up early, he just needed to gather himself a bit before committing to it. 

Next time he opened his eyes the midday sun stared at him through the window and his mother’s knockings vibrated through the room. 

“Darling, you have to get up” 

God did he hate her in these moments, and god did he hate himself for thinking that. 

“I am!” He managed to let out. His eyes crusty with rheum and hair heavy with itchy grease. 

“Do you need anything?” 

Sometimes she treated him like a child, and he couldn’t even blame her. He was her only son, her nineteen-year-old son, and he couldn’t even begin to try and make her happy or proud. Normal living, working, dating, moving out just wasn’t for him, he was destined to lay rotting in his room and there was nothing else he’d rather do. 

“No, I’ll make myself breakfast.” 

“Alright, I’m going into town soon, is there anything I can get for you?” 

“No, it’s fine.” 

“Love you, sweetheart!” 

“Love you too, Mother.” 

To the sound of her retreating steps Morrissey finally rose. He stumbled to the bathroom down the hall from his nest with the taste of sleep in his mouth. He could never decide if he hated or loved watching himself in mirrors, just as he could never decide if he was the ugliest man alive or the handsomest. His pale skin seemed almost grey in the harsh bathroom light; his features mercilessly enhanced by the shadows. His long awaited 50s quiff that he’d begged mother for for weeks was not made justice by the sorry state it was in. God, I have to shower. It was a slight relief to feel the sweat and oils leave him, the hot water banishing it from him. He felt lighter as he stepped out of the shower, lazily wrapping a towel around himself, walking downstairs with water dripping behind him. Mother would berate him for that, but he just didn’t care. He wasn’t going to make breakfast, he detested eating, it was vulgar and uncomfortable. He was simply after the newspaper of the day, specifically the culture section. That’s where he’d gather all his information about upcoming happenings in Manchester's music world, it wasn’t up to date, or even good, but he refused to go outside unnecessarily and he’d lost his only contact with the outside world when Linder moved to London so this was his best bet. He always read it hoping there wouldn’t be anything worth crawling out of the house for and... Fuck. Patti Smith coming to Manchester. Patti Smith. He had seen her before, somewhat recently in fact, but he’d hate himself if he didn’t go. It was in a week; he had a week of preparing himself. There had a time when he went out every weekend to watch bands, he’d even write in music magazines, but that time felt distant, exotic. It might be good for him to visit one of the venues again, to see some familiar faces, even if he never liked any of them. He could start living again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now this sort of went off the rails and is FAR too fast paced.

Cancelled, the show was fucking cancelled. Morrissey didn’t even know why, the only thing he knew was that he got the news far too late and that sitting angry and shivering outside a buzzing venue wasn’t his ideal way of spending a night. There were others playing instead of Patti but he refused to find out who, and whoever it was, he hated them. Hated that they were the muffled soundtrack to his awful night. And the audience, bunch of talentless, uncultured knobs that had the audacity to even think of having fun even though Patti wasn’t performing. Life certainly wasn’t worth it, and he’d better go drown himself right this moment. 

“Hey, everything’s alright?” 

The sudden question made Morrissey jump; he had been buried too deeply in his sorrows to notice the man coming up to him. 

“No” He replied hoping the stranger would take the hint. But he didn’t. 

“Yeah man, I get that... Want a fag?” 

Morrissey looked up at the man, he was young, around his own age. He was probably quite drunk. 

“Yeah, okay, thank you” He mumbled, he’d only smoked once before and hadn’t really liked it, but it was worth the taste and smell for the long-awaited lung cancer. He took a closer look at the cigarette donor as he tried to get his borrowed lighter to work, the man was very tall but it was barely noticeable as his posture was so extraordinary poor, it was like seeing a shrimp on land. His cheeks looked to be rotting with some sort of acne but other than that he was surprisingly handsome, a 50s movie star kind of handsome. The cigarette Morrissey held had been bent in half, resulting in most of its tobacco falling out, it was basically just the filter left but he still managed to choke on it once lit. The man patted his back as he coughed. 

“So is there anything specific bothering you or is it just...” The man started gesturing lazily “... Like... Everything?” 

“Just life, but the garbage music they’re playing in there isn’t helping either” The least Morrissey could do was to try and make the best of the situation, he never turned down an opportunity to whine someone's ear off. 

“Yeah! I drove all the way from Birkenhead just to see Lary Kaye, and he’s not even here” The stranger whined back at him, they spoke the same language it seemed. Morrissey didn’t want to go home yet, he couldn’t, and then an idea struck him. 

“Want to go take a drink?” He asked pointing his cigarette across the street. The stranger lit up. 

“Yeah, that’s a brilliant idea!” 

___ 

The stranger’s name was James, a name only slightly more redeemable than “Steven”, he was twenty years old, had lived in Birkenhead his whole life, loved Patti Smith and The Ramones and had a horrendous taste in conversational partners. He was a real person, a social person with a real life and here he sat with Morrissey, the ugliest man alive, talking freely over a beer in an unfamiliar city, oh, what a life he must live, a life so far from his own. James was quite drunk now, the rest of his face matching the sick redness of his acne, Morrissey was too, he supposed, if the moving floor was anything to go by, it was as if the pub had been plopped down in the middle of a stormy sea. Drinking usually made him sad, but now he just felt seasick, better than sad, maybe. At least he was talking to someone about something, but what was that something? He had zoned out and let himself talk without connecting mouth to brain. 

“Yeah... that’s like... how it is... man” James mumbled. “We really should execute everyone with an IQ under 100, that’s just like... yeah... logical” 

Morrissey sighed a sigh of relief, all other people he’d discussed his grand plans with just called him an uninformed fascist, but James did seem to get it. The seasickness was rising up his throat painting the walls of it with sour stomach acid. He managed to get up but didn’t make it to the bathroom. He could feel the putrid contents of his stomach forcing its way up his throat onto the floor taking his teeth, his tongue, his lungs with it. Half a second later he and James had been forced out of the pub and stood stranded in the cold rain. 

“What an asshole! It’s not your fault he served you too much alcohol, what did he expect?” James said making vague angry gestures with his hands. Morrissey hummed in response. 

“No offense Steve...but Manchester kind of sucks” 

“Yeah, it does, by god, don’t call me Steve, and you’ve barely seen the place” 

“We should get out of here, like travel south, could you imagine living in London?” James said spinning slightly in place trying to lit another cigarette with shaking hands. The idea took Morrissey with surprise, but still, to his drunken mind that sounded great and romantic, to run off to London with a handsome stranger to see Linder and maybe even become a person. 

“Yeah, let’s like... do that”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all I can say is sorry honestly


End file.
